


au contraire

by doomcake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BrOT4, Episode Related, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Mild Hurt/Comfort, canon whump, spoilers for ep 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He hated you. They all did—your so-called <i>friends</i>. They left you to bleed to death in the square.”</p>
<p>In which Athos, Porthos and Aramis beg to differ. </p>
<p>(Or, a tagfic for s01e10 "Musketeers Don't Die Easily". Spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	au contraire

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand another episode tag fic. This one comes from Milady telling d'Artagnan that his friends left him to bleed out in the streets after he'd been shot, and me going, "LOL NO DID YOU NOT SEE THE EPIC BRO MOMENT THERE WHEN THEY GOT ALL WORRIED ABOUT THE PUPPY??" (I have taken to this bad habit of calling d'Artagnan 'puppy'. He is so precious, and I'm only a little sorry.)
> 
> So it's implied that d'Artagnan clearly does not buy Milady's bullshit at this point, but I felt the need to write it out anyway. Parts of this are lifted directly from the episode, but I tried to go a little more into d'Artagnan's head. Not sure how I did, but here goes!
> 
> (I swear this is my last direct episode tie-in for a long while, I SWEAR.)

**_au contraire_ **

Getting shot in the arm hurts worse than he thought it would, d’Artagnan thinks, taking a step back from Athos. But when his knees buckle beneath him and the pain suddenly hits like a battering ram in his side, he realizes that Athos missed. _Athos missed_ , and the fear on Athos’ face is going to give them away if he isn’t careful.   
  
D’Artagnan hears shouting and feels hands bracing his back as he looks up from the ground. He doesn’t even remember falling. He isn’t sure who he’s leaning against, but there’s a hand pressing into the agony emanating from his ribs, and his vision flickers and grays dangerously. There are hands all over him now, and his grip on consciousness is rapidly slipping.   
  
Porthos is suddenly there, patting his face and telling him to _“Stay awake, come on—stay awake!”_ and it’s then that he realizes he might be in real danger.   
  
He tries to stay awake, he really does, but Aramis’ and Porthos’ worried faces blur together and then fade completely. Belatedly, he wonders if he’ll ever see them again.

**‽**

When d’Artagnan’s eyes blink open, he’s confused, at first. There’s a faint lingering surprise in the back of his mind, because he distinctly remembers Porthos telling him to stay awake (and his panicking, fading mind telling him that if he doesn’t follow Porthos’ instructions, he will never wake again) and being unable to do so.   
  
Taking in his surroundings, d’Artagnan realizes that he has no idea where he is. The room is entirely unfamiliar, from the ceiling to the embroidered pillows surrounding his head, and it smells faintly of floral perfume. _Jasmine_ , his subconsciousness supplies happily, the scent that lingered around the dead moneylender’s room, and as his brain quickly makes the connection, he sits up with a jolt.   
  
The wound in his side protests with a sharp ache, wrenching a soft cry of pain from his lips as a hand flies to the source of the agony. There are bandages wrapped around his otherwise bare chest, a little crusty near the wound where blood has spotted through the wrappings and dried. It’s extremely tender to the touch and it hurts a little to breathe, but he thinks he can manage most movement. Perhaps he wasn’t as badly injured as he feared, and the relief that follows this thought seeps into his chest and uncoils the tension he didn’t realize he was holding there.   
  
He isn’t completely out of danger, though, if this room belongs to who he thinks it does. He’ll have to be ready for when she returns.   
  
Edging to the end of the bed and setting his feet tentatively on the ground, he grunts and looks down at the bandages, frowning. It’ll be much harder to move around if his injury keeps aching as fiercely as it is now. Glancing around the room, he finds his shirt sprawled across a corner of the bed, cleared of his blood and the side mended with fine, white stitches where the bullet had torn through. He reaches for it and stands, pulling it over his head with a soft grunt of pain.   
  
As he’s adjusting the sleeves around his wrists, he hears the telltale click of a small pistol a split second before the barrel presses into the base of his skull. He freezes.   
  
“I could blow your brains out now and never think of you again,” Milady says coolly.   
  
He takes time to gather his wits and replies, “I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here just to shoot me.”   
  
“Well the question is, can I trust you?”   
  
“I saved your life,” he points out, falling back on the script. He still has a role to play.   
  
A beat or two, and she lowers the gun, clicking the safety back into place. She walks around him slowly, not unlike a predator circling its prey, and he stoically schools his expression as she finally stands in front of him. Her eyes flick to his bandaged side, now hidden by his shirt.   
  
“The shot grazed your ribs,” she explains. “A few inches to the right, and Athos would have killed you.”   
  
“It was an accident.” He knows this much has to be true, because he saw the fear in Athos’ eyes.   
  
“Was it?”   
  
“Yes,” he replies, too quickly.   
  
She regards him carefully. “You saw the look on his face when he found out about us,” she says. “He hated you. They all did—your so-called _friends_. They left you to bleed to death in the square.”   
  
There’s a sharp stab of doubt in his chest, but he forces it away. He knows she’s trying to get inside his head, to mess with him—so he knows that she isn’t speaking a word of truth in this. Even though this is supposed to be a ruse, he recalls Aramis and Porthos hovering over him with stark worry on both their faces. He thinks it’s miraculous that they didn’t call off the whole thing right then and there, because Athos sure looked like he’d wanted to, once he saw what he’d done.   
  
“Why didn’t you tell me you were his wife?” d’Artagnan counters, not rising to Milady’s bait.   
  
“It never came up,” she says simply. A half-grin crosses her face. “The Cardinal is my patron and protector. He could be yours, too.”   
  
Ah, and there is the offer. But if he takes it too quickly, he might risk giving them away. Instead, he smirks mirthlessly, and replies, “I hate the Cardinal.”   
  
His side is aching, so he moves to sit back on the side of the bed.   
  
“That’s childish talk.” She’s in front of him now, practically sitting on his lap. Before, this would have thrilled him. Now that he knows better, her actions make his skin crawl. “Cut your losses, d’Artagnan. There is no future for you in the Musketeers.”   
  
“I don’t believe that.” He doesn’t, really, but he lets his voice waver just a hair. Give the woman enough rope, perhaps…   
  
She leans forward and kisses him, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Believe that.”   
  
“Last time I was in your bed, you murdered a man and blamed me for it,” he says.   
  
“I promise I haven’t murdered anyone yet… _today_.” Milady bites her lip seductively, and he feigns interest when she settles down next to him on the bed.   
  
And now, the real work begins.   
  
“Tell me what really happened between you and Athos.”

**‽**

Milady is _good_ , but d’Artagnan—despite all the wide-eyed ignorance his youthful face shows—isn’t a fool. She knows exactly how to manipulate her voice, allow just a hint of unshed tears in her eyes, and d’Artagnan knows that a lesser man would have no chance. _He_ had no chance, once, but _fool him once_ and the second time isn’t going to happen.   
  
The wheels are turning rapidly in his head the moment Milady calls on his once-passionate promise to murder whoever dared hurt her in the past. Her insistence of Athos’ true, dark nature is almost so genuine that he would’ve believed it, had Athos not already set the record straight. So when Treville shows up—as planned—to tell him that he effectively will be forced to resign his commission, and Milady is smirking knowingly at him, d’Artagnan already has the basics of a plan formed in his mind.   
  
“Be in the town square at midday—you’ll get what you want.”   
  
She looks like she’s trying her damndest not to laugh, and he too has to repress a victorious smirk. _The trap is set._

**‽**

The plans are set, and Athos has made a show of stomping out of Treville’s office with flair, Treville hot on his heels. D’Artagnan steels himself to follow suit with dramatic fury, but Aramis halts him with a hand on his arm. D’Artagnan’s eyebrow raises, but then he sees the concerned frown creasing his friend’s forehead, and he knows exactly what this is about.   
  
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Aramis asks.   
  
“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan says, brushing him off. “Just a graze. It’s been looked at by the finest physician the Cardinal can afford.” He straightens his back and smiles. “Besides, wouldn’t it look suspicious if I have it looked at here?”   
  
Aramis hums in agreement, but doesn’t entirely look convinced. “I could look at it here, you know. I’m sure Treville wouldn’t mind.”   
  
“It’s all right, really,” d’Artagnan insists, but by the way Aramis is looking at him, and with Porthos looming close by with crossed arms, he knows he isn’t going to win this argument. It is quite sore, and it would make him feel better to have someone else’s word for it that it’ll be fine.   
  
“Let me be the judge of that,” Aramis says, leading d’Artagnan by the elbow to sit down.   
  
D’Artagnan grimaces as he unbuttons his jacket and raises his shirt, and by the matching grimace on Aramis’ face once the bandages are removed, he can tell it doesn’t look so great either. Aramis’ probing fingers send a spike of pain through d’Artagnan’s side, which elicits a hiss out of him, and a low whistle from Porthos.   
  
“That looks right painful,” Porthos says. “Just as well Athos ain’t here to see it.”   
  
“Just a little more to the right, and he would’ve ended you,” Aramis comments. He looks like he’s about to be sick. “You’ve got a cracked rib, but it’ll heal well with enough rest.”   
  
“That’s what Milady told me too, but it did the trick,” d’Artagnan replies easily. “Athos was right, a shot to the side is absolutely more authentic. She thinks you all hate me. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d have believed it too.”   
  
Aramis’ eyes meet his. “You _do_ know that was all an act, right?”   
  
“Of course!” d’Artagnan replies, a little surprised that both his friends look so upset. “There’s no way you would have left me bleeding in the street otherwise.”   
  
Now it’s Porthos’ turn to look sick. “She didn’t say that, did she?”   
  
“How else did I end up in her quarters?”   
  
“She insisted on it,” Aramis says bitterly. “She said that we’d done enough damage for one night. And we had to continue the act, so we let her take you.”   
  
“You should’ve heard Athos after we got back to the garrison,” Porthos says. “I thought he was going to blow our cover right then and there and go after you, he was so upset.”   
  
Aramis’ hands are gentle as he re-wraps the bandages around d’Artagnan’s middle. “The second I realized Athos hadn’t hit your arm, I almost blew our cover too,” he admits. “When you passed out, I thought he’d actually killed you.”   
  
D’Artagnan’s chest constricts with emotion, and his ears are burning red hot. He isn’t sure if it’s gratitude or embarrassment he’s feeling, perhaps a little of both, but in either case it’s warm and oddly comforting that his friends were so worried for his sake.   
  
“Please don’t tell Athos how close it was. The plan was my idea,” he reminds them instead, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I knew the risks. Athos shouldn’t blame himself for it—and neither should you two.”   
  
“We know, lad, but that doesn’t make it any easier for us to watch you nearly get yourself killed, act or not,” Porthos says. When d’Artagnan’s shirt is back in place, Porthos claps a large hand on his shoulder. “Besides, who else would we pick on, if you weren’t here?”   
  
D’Artagnan smiles at that.   
  
“You should probably go soon,” Aramis says, wiping his hands on his breeches. “Don’t want you to wait too long to make your dramatic exit.”   
  
D’Artagnan stands, ignoring the twinge in his aggravated side as he finds his feet. “I’ll see you gentlemen later.” He waves his hand in a dramatic salute and bows.   
  
If he’s a got a little more spring in his step on his way out of the garrison than he should for an angry, spurned “ex-”Musketeer, nobody calls him on it.


End file.
